


& forgive us our trespasses

by soyicedcoffee



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst, Butch/Femme, Cheating, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:40:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25180288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soyicedcoffee/pseuds/soyicedcoffee
Summary: “What the fuck.”Richie stopped in her tracks, iced coffee now half empty and the lid scattered to the floor. As for where the rest of her drink went, the woman in front of her was wearing it on the front of her white button up blouse.Richie knew she should do something, say something, but she was frozen in place. There was something about the sight of her – her dark brown hair, her golden tan skin, the irritated downturn of her mouth – that stirred something in the back of Richie’s brain. Something close to familiarity, but stronger. She felt faint for a second, ears ringing.(it's 2006. richie is on her first comedy tour when she meets a woman who is strikingly familiar. over the next six years, they are drawn together again and again and again.)
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 9
Kudos: 39





	1. july 2006, part one

**Author's Note:**

> yet another niche fem reddie fic.
> 
> notes:  
> 1\. this fic is angsty and contains cheating (e/r cheating with each other, not on each other, if that sweetens the deal at all). any other warnings will be updated in the tags.  
> 2\. fem eddie is fat and you can pry that out of my cold, dead hands.  
> 3\. the title is a reference to the sinéad morrissey poem of the same name.  
> 4\. i've got a lot of this written but not the whole thing because i'm tremendously impatient. but i do know where it's going, and barring unforeseen circumstances, i will finish it.

(Richie)

Richie was outrageously hungover.

Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, she thought to herself as she jammed her prescription sunglasses onto her face and left her hotel room.

In hindsight, she could see how it happened. A couple of gin and tonics on the flight from LAX to JFK soon became drinks at some bougie lounge with her manager to celebrate the kickoff of her first tour. Raiding the hotel minibar after stumbling back to her hotel - she could admit that that had been a mistake. Now here she was, swallowing around her nausea as she took the stairs down to the ground floor, hoping the physical activity would somehow invigorate her. When she stepped out into the oppressive heat of midsummer New York, it quickly became clear that it had not had the desired effect.

She squinted into the bright morning – afternoon? – sun. Her manager had put her up in a professional area of the city, and she was blinded by the way the sun reflected off the tall glass buildings that lined the street. All she wanted – all she could even imagine herself wanting – was a cold drink containing a fatal amount of caffeine, which she was already silently and hopelessly praying would rid her of the headache slowly growing behind her forehead. She peered at her watch and realized without much shock that it was nearly noon, which explained the hordes of business-attired people that flooded the sidewalks. She stuck out like a sore thumb in her jeans and rumpled t-shirt.

After a moment of searching, her eyes lit on a Starbucks in the distance, looking not unlike the Holy Grail. She made her way there, traveling downstream against the crush of people seeking food or drinks or whatever it was that people who worked in offices did at lunch time.

The AC was on at full blast inside the café, and Richie sighed with relief, taking her sunglasses off and hanging them on the neck of her t-shirt.

“It’s hot as the devil’s asshole out there,” she said to the barista, pushing a stray, sweaty curl away from her face.

“What can I get for you?” he asked, somehow communicating his profound lack of concern for her comments on the weather with the dispassionate raise of his eyebrows.

“Uh… Sorry, I can’t see shit without my glasses,” she said. “Can I just get, like, an iced coffee?”

“What size?”

“Large? Or extra large, if you have that? The biggest.”

He accepted her payment and dismissed her from the till without any verbal comment, and she moved obediently to the end of the bar, where she waited and briefly contemplated if she had done something to deserve the barista’s ire, or if this was just what people in New York were like.

When her coffee was ready, she took it gratefully. She had to resist holding the sweating drink up to her forehead. She turned around and-

“What the _fuck._ ”

Richie stopped in her tracks, iced coffee now half empty and the lid scattered to the floor. As for where the rest of her drink went, the woman in front of her was wearing it on the front of her white button up blouse.

Richie knew she should do something, say something, but she was frozen in place. There was something about the sight of her – her dark brown hair, her golden tan skin, the irritated downturn of her mouth – that stirred something in the back of Richie’s brain. Something close to familiarity, but stronger. She felt faint for a second, ears ringing.

“God fucking damn it,” the woman cursed, voice sharp with annoyance, looking down at her ruined shirt, and Richie snapped back to the moment. She shook her head to clear it and sprang into action, reaching around the woman and grabbing a handful of napkins from the stand behind her.

“I am _so_ sorry,” said Richie, fluttering her hands uselessly as the woman snatched the napkins from her hand and started dabbing at her shirt.

“As if I needed this today,” she muttered. “I should really make you pay to have this dry cleaned, you know.”

“Okay,” said Richie. She swallowed. “Yeah, of course,” she fumbled her wallet from the back pocket of her jeans and clumsily pulled out a crumpled fifty. The woman eyed it cynically.

“That’s not- No. Have you never had something dry cleaned before?” she asked, finally looking up at Richie’s face, and she was, again, momentarily stunned. First of all, she was fucking gorgeous. Like, Richie’s type a thousand times over, short and all curves and dark hair, with a sweet sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheeks, and intelligent dark eyes. But, even more than that, it was that tug of memory, sharp and insistent as a jab to the ribs, that nearly knocked her over.

The woman narrowed her eyes, gaze drifting critically over Richie’s features. “Did you go to NYU?” she asked, and Richie was so surprised by the new trajectory of the conversation that she had to pause and think about it before answering. _Did_ she go to NYU?

“Um, no,” she said. “I didn’t go to any _U._ And I’ve never had anything dry cleaned, either. Is this not enough?” She opened her billfold again and rifled around for another bill.

The woman sighed. “Never mind,” she muttered, with one last glance down at her ruined shirt. “I have another shirt in my office, anyway. It’s fine.” She mustered a polite, if half-hearted, smile and turned back towards the door.

“Wait,” said Richie. She was suddenly desperate for her not to leave. “At least let me buy you a coffee,” she said.

The woman hesitated and turned back around. Richie expected dismissiveness, but her manner was sincerely hesitant, and her eyes seemed to be searching Richie’s face. She looked down at her watch, and then back up at Richie. “I can’t,” she finally said. “I have a client meeting in 20 minutes, and I have to go find a new shirt.”

Richie winced at her pointed tone. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

“It’s fine,” said the woman. And with that, she turned around and walked out.

-

Richie spent the rest of the afternoon in her hotel room, pounding back bottles of water and half-participating in a desperate text exchange with her manager, who needed hourly reassurance that she was going to be on time tonight, _please, Richie. Let’s start this tour off on the right foot._ To be fair, she hadn’t been late to _that many_ shows. He was just a worrier by nature.

As the afternoon wore on, Richie started getting anxious. The gig was at a mid-range place, a few steps up from the places in LA where she normally did stand-up. She knew she was lucky – that her manager, David, went so hard for her and got her this tour in the first place; that she’d ever been picked up by a manager at all. Not that she didn’t think she deserved it – she was pretty fucking funny – but so many of the comedians she’d been working alongside five years ago (many of whom were, in Richie’s opinion, much funnier than she was) were still performing at the same old places.

That’s all to say that the importance of not fucking this up wasn’t lost on her. She knew that this tour would be either the beginning of her career or the beginning of the end. She dug through her suitcase, agitated and anxious, and came out with a pair of skinny jeans and a button up shirt that she was pretty sure David wouldn’t object to (although, there was no guarantee – what was fine one day with him may very well be the death knell of her career the next.)

She looked in the mirror right before she left, patting down her unruly hair with her palms. There was no helping it, in the July humidity. She also noticed, to her chagrin, a new zit developing on the side of her chin, and she picked at it with her fingernail, cursing the fact that she was 31 and seemed to still have the complexion of a pre-teen.

(Eddie)

Eddie was confused.

Eddie was confused, and she didn’t like being confused. She’d structured her adult life around not being confused. Leaving her hometown, going to University, landing a cushy office job, and now dating Mark. Her life had settled into a predictable rhythm of exercise, work, errands, and Friday date nights, and she liked it that way. Everything was permanent, settled, and most of the time, things went her way.

That was, until this strange, tall woman had spilled the majority of an obscenely large iced coffee down her shirt and made her question her life as she had, until now, known it.

The encounter in the coffee shop had been, on its face, not particularly remarkable. Inconvenient, sure. Annoying, definitely. But what had made it strange was the feeling that Eddie got, the air of familiarity that tingled up her spine as she looked up at the woman’s shocked face. The curly dark hair, the slight slouch to her shoulders, the comic tenor of her voice, even when she was being serious – it all made Eddie’s brain feel fuzzy and off-kilter. It made her feel… well, it made her feel confused.

And then there had been the comedy show. Eddie had never been to a comedy show in her life, and she wasn’t embarrassed to say that. But Mark had won these tickets in some sort of work raffle and insisted that they use them, and Eddie had agreed, only semi-reluctant. After all, the name, _Richie Tozier,_ had seemed familiar, and if even Eddie recognized the name of a comedian, they must be pretty famous. The lights went down in the theatre, the audience waiting in hushed anticipation, and then…

“Hi, hello everyone,” said Richie, and she entered stage left, and Eddie’s jaw dropped. “You’re all too kind,” she said. The clapping died down quickly, but she continued. “You guys, seriously, stop it,” she said to the quiet auditorium, playing embarrassed, and it got a few laughs, which obviously energized her. “This is, wow, such a warm reception. I’m from LA, and when I do shows back home, by this time people have already broken out their cellphones and Bluetooth headsets. I swear, five minutes in and the audience looks like a fucking air traffic control room.”

“Holy fuck,” said Eddie.

“What?” asked Mark in a whisper, and Eddie hesitated.

“Uh, nothing,” she said. The man sitting beside them shot Eddie a dirty look, and Eddie closed her mouth, turning back to face the stage.

Eddie watched the rest of the set with rapt attention, unable to look away from Richie. Her broad, loose gestures, her impressions, which were mostly notable because of how much she committed to them, and the eager way she responded whenever she got a laugh. Every positive response from the audience had her doubling down on her jokes, as enthusiastic and grateful as a dog being offered a bone. More than her appearance, her voice, or her mannerisms, that conspicuous and curiously vulnerable desire to please was what, over and over, triggered in Eddie an alarmingly strong sense of déjà vu.

The show ended, and as the auditorium started emptying, Mark made small talk about the show, but Eddie was distracted and dazed, lost in thought.

“Did you like it?” he asked.

“Hm? Oh, yeah, it was good,” said Eddie absently, picking up her purse and shuffling along the narrow aisle of seats.

“You didn’t find it a little crass?”

Eddie shrugged.

“I mean, it was just a little immature for my tastes,” he continued, and she felt a stab of annoyance and defensiveness she couldn’t easily place. She pressed her lips together, staying silent.

They were about to exit the theatre when she paused and looked back over her shoulder. The person walking behind her ran straight into her, but she hardly felt it.

“I actually have to pee,” she said, glancing back at her boyfriend, and he sighed, running a hand over his carefully slicked back blond hair.

“You can’t wait until we’re home?” he asked, and she shook her head, already making her way back into the busy lobby.

It wasn’t hard to find the door marked “Backstage”, and her heart was in her throat as she opened it. She _really_ hated getting in trouble, a fear she hadn’t been able to rid herself of even as an adult, but no one stopped her as she slipped backstage and let the door fall shut behind her.

The long hallway was dark, but one of the doors was cracked open, with a beam of light streaming out. Eddie made her way quietly down the hall and peered in.

Richie was standing there, facing away from the door. She was cleaning her glasses on her shirt, and Eddie watched as she squinted through them and frowned. Eddie cleared her throat, and Richie whirled around, shoving her glasses back onto her face.

“Um, hi,” said Eddie. Richie looked at her blankly for a second, and Eddie could practically hear the gears turning in her head.

“Hello,” said Richie, peering at her curiously through her thick glasses, “I ruined your shirt.”

“Yeah,” Eddie confirmed. She abruptly realized that she should have at least planned what she wanted to say, and her brain stalled.

“How… I mean, not to be rude or anything, but how did you get back here?” asked Richie.

Eddie grimaced guiltily. “Oh, I just walked back? No one stopped me, so…” she trailed off, anxiously tucking a strand of dark hair back behind her ear.

“I guess my security detail is slacking off,” Richie deadpanned, and Eddie laughed, earning her a wide, unguarded grin. There was a long stretch of silence, in which they both just looked at each other, but it wasn’t as uncomfortable as Eddie was pretty sure it should have been.

“I’m Eddie,” she said, finally breaking the silence. On instinct, she held out her hand to shake, and immediately regretted it, the gesture feeling overly formal and odd. But Richie reciprocated automatically, taking Eddie’s small hand in her pale, broad-palmed one. Her nails were short, bitten to the quick, and her palm was warm and slightly damp.

“Sorry,” she said, chuckling self-consciously as she pulled her hand away, “I always sweat like a goddamn pig on stage.” She wiped her palm on her jeans, and Eddie politely resisted the urge to do the same. “I’m Richie.”

“I knew that already,” Eddie said. “I mean, I’m not stalking you or anything,” she clarified quickly, “I just saw your show, and it’s… it’s just a weird coincidence, I guess, but I recognized you from this morning, and I was wondering if I could take you up on that coffee? If the offer still stands. I mean, no pressure at all,” she said. “Sorry, I know this is probably super weird-“

“Yes,” said Richie, cutting her off. “I’d still like to buy you a coffee.”

Eddie bit her lip, but she could feel the slow smile spreading across her face anyway. “Okay,” she said, nodding. “Great.”

“We could- It’s probably too late for coffee, but we could go for a drink, if you wanted?” offered Richie, sounding hopeful, and Eddie frowned.

“I actually can’t right now,” she said, the amount of genuine regret she felt surprising her. “My boyfriend is waiting for me in the lobby, actually, so I should probably-“ she nodded toward the door.

“Oh,” said Richie. “Right.” Eddie thought she caught a flash of disappointment, mirroring her own, but in a second her face was arranged into an expression of careful neutrality.

“But if you’re free tomorrow?” Eddie reached into her bag and pulled out her daytimer and a pen, scribbling her phone number on a page near the back and tearing it out. “This is my number,” she said. “So just text me or whatever, and we can figure something out?”

“Sure.” Richie nodded and took the paper from Eddie, fingers brushing hers, and Eddie turned on her heel and fled, feeling like her heart was beating on the outside of her chest.


	2. july 2006, part two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nobody:  
> literally no one at all, ever:  
> me: do y'all want more fem!reddie? i made you more fem!reddie.
> 
> also i made a playlist for this fic if ur interested https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1DZyOgNTkfuVKwTZDBC5qf?si=9hNWG8ffQY6LRdBSINxNdA (not saying anyone would be but you never know and i have found a lot of good music through fic playlists)

(Eddie)

Eddie was already sweating as she ascended the steps from the subway and walked the two blocks to Richie’s hotel. It was a Saturday morning, and the normally bustling business area around her work was instead crowded with slow-walking tourists. She looked at her watch. She was ten minutes early, but as she rounded on Richie’s hotel she was surprised to see her already standing outside, waiting for her. She looked… well, Eddie couldn’t think of a word for it – which was annoying, because nothing about Richie standing there in Bermuda shorts and a ridiculously patterned button-up should have been _indescribable._ She hadn’t spotted Eddie yet, and she was oblivious to her attention from the opposite sidewalk as she bounced her leg and crossed and uncrossed her arms. Eddie let herself look for a second – at her dark, curling mess of hair, her long legs poking out of her shorts, skinny and shockingly pale, her thick glasses glinting in the morning sun.

As she waited for the light to change so she could cross the street, Richie finally noticed her and grinned, waving with abandon, and Eddie gave a little wave back. When the light changed, she half-jogged across the road, flip-flops hitting the blacktop.

“Hi,” Richie greeted her, breathless as if she had been the one jogging. She took a halting step closer, as if she was going in for a hug, but at the last second, she pulled back, running a hand through her hair. “You look, uh-“

Eddie was not ready to let her finish that sentence. This situation was confusing enough without starting it off like a fucking- like a fucking _date_ or something. Eddie set off down the sidewalk, somehow knowing Richie would follow her. “So, coffee?”

“Yeah, uh, coffee’s good with me. If it’s good with you,” she said, catching up and loping along beside Eddie. “My treat, obviously. I don’t know where to get good coffee here, though, so you’ll have to lead the way. I mean, there’s that Starbucks,” she said, gesturing to the one at the end of the street where they’d met, “but I don’t know if either of us is ready to relive those memories.”

Eddie snorted. “Yeah. It might be too soon. Your victim’s not even back from the dry cleaner’s yet.”

Richie groaned. “I am so fucking sorry about that,” she said. “I’d like to say I’m not usually such a disaster, but…”

“I wouldn’t believe you,” confirmed Eddie. Richie had this big, wild energy about her that Eddie imagined was the cause of many a mess and disaster. Richie scoffed.

“Well, don’t pull any punches, Eds,” she said. Eddie’s heart jumped. _Eds_? Nobody called her by a nickname, not even Mark (in the two years that they’d been together, he’d never tried). But it sounded right coming from Richie, and Eddie wondered why it had never occurred to her to go by it before. Richie didn’t seem to notice her slip-up – or maybe it wasn’t a slip-up, and she always gave nicknames to people she’d just met.

“So, have you ever been here before?” asked Eddie, as they waited for their coffee. Eddie had chosen the shop at random – it was a little hipster place, the type where the employees all wore flannel, even in the dead of summer, and she’d never been there in her life, but Richie seemed content with it. “New York, I mean.”

Richie laughed. “Nah,” she said. “I literally got here yesterday. I haven’t even seen the fucking Statue of Liberty, or, like, one of those huge ass subway rats.” Eddie grimaced. That was something she preferred not to think about when she was taking public transportation in the city. “When I moved away from home, I really committed. Haven’t been back to the east coast since.”

“I can understand that,” said Eddie. The relief and freedom she’d felt when she’d moved away from her hometown had been dizzying, exciting and terrifying in equal measure. She hadn’t looked back. “Where did you grow up?”

“Maine,” said Richie. “Then I lived in Seattle for a while, and now I live in LA.”

“I grew up in Maine, too,” said Eddie. “That’s a weird coincidence.”

Richie shot her a quick, narrow look that Eddie caught in the corner of her eye. “It’s not that weird,” said Richie slowly. “I mean, lots of people are from Maine, right?”

“I guess,” Eddie conceded reluctantly. _Were_ a lot of people from Maine? “Where in Maine did you-“ The blaring of Eddie’s ringtone interrupted her, and she groaned, pulling her cellphone out of her bag and flipping it open. WORK flashed on the screen, and she hit END and then held it, switching her phone off and dropping it to the bottom of her purse.

“Do you need to like, take that?” asked Richie.

“It’s Saturday,” said Eddie, shrugging, faux casual as if she ignored work calls all the time. In fact, she couldn’t think of a time she hadn’t picked up a work call since she’d started at her job. “If you…” Eddie hesitated, and Richie shot her a curious glance. “If you wanted, I mean… I don’t even know if you’re free all day, but-“

“I am,” Richie confirmed. “I leave tomorrow morning.” When Eddie glanced over, she saw that a small smile had already made its way onto Richie’s face, and she looked away quickly.

“Okay. Well, if you wanted, I could show you around a bit,” she suggested. “I mean, I’m free all day anyway. I don’t know if you were, like, planning to explore or whatever…” she trailed off as Richie held the door open for her, and they exited out onto the sidewalk.

“Hmm, I don’t know,” said Richie, and Eddie could hear her grinning as easily as if she was looking right at her, “being shown around the big apple by a fellow Mainite? How do I know you’re a reliable tour guide?”

Eddie frowned. “First of all,” she said, “it’s Mainer, not ‘Mainite’.” She shot Richie a withering look that made her laugh. “And second of all, I’ve lived here for 14 years, making me perfectly qualified to show someone around. But if you aren’t interested-“

“Aw, Eddie, I’m just teasing. I’d be honoured,” she said, knocking her shoulder into Eddie’s playfully. “Where are you gonna take me?”

They ended up taking the subway uptown to Central Park, Eddie leading the way and Richie bounding along beside her like a particularly attentive Great Dane.

“This is amazing,” said Richie as they entered the park and meandered down a path lined with densely packed trees, sun streaming through the leaves. “It’s so green. And way bigger than I thought.” Eddie smiled to herself. Clearly, taking Richie to Central Park had been the right move. After living in the city for so many years, some of the charm had worn off for Eddie, but she could certainly appreciate the vast green-ness of the park, the towering oaks and sagging willows, the homey, red-brick grandness of the architecture, and the ducks paddling along two by two in the lake, serene and companionate. Richie craned her neck as they walked along, taking in the sights, as enthusiastic and curious as a child on a school trip. Eddie couldn’t bring herself to feel embarrassed over how much Richie looked like a tourist, or of how much they stuck out, with Richie’s height and her loud voice and big gestures.

Richie took a sip of her coffee, and Eddie liked the blissed-out look on her face. She wondered if she could make it happen more, or if it was a face reserved for caffeinated beverages.

“So, what did you think of the show?” asked Richie as they strolled along, cautious edge to her voice. She glanced at Eddie and Eddie quickly looked away, pretending she hadn’t been staring at Richie’s stupid, handsome face.

“It was hilarious,” said Eddie, and Richie’s face broke out into a wide grin.

“Really?” asked Richie, sounding as surprised as she was glad.

“What? You’re surprised to hear someone liked your show?” When Eddie had been googling her last night, everything she found had been positive, especially recent press about her tour.

Richie shrugged. “I just wouldn’t have pegged you as someone who would like my kind of comedy.”

“Why?” asked Eddie. “You think I’m too, what, uptight?” Eddie knew she could be high strung sometimes, but there was something about Richie thinking it that irritated her.

“No, no,” Richie protested, “nothing like that. I just wasn’t sure. I’m glad you liked it.”

Eddie smiled, placated. “I mean, it _was_ pretty vulgar,” she admitted. “But, I don’t know. It works for you. You’re really talented.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Eddie watched Richie open her mouth to respond, then close it again, a dark blush blooming on her cheeks and traveling down her pale neck, to the collar of her shirt. “Uh,” said Richie, sounding flustered. She rubbed the back of her neck with her palm. “Gee, thanks, Eds.” Richie’s reaction to simple praise made Eddie feel all warm and fuzzy which, _what the fuck,_ was not her default emotion by a long shot, and she wasn’t sure she liked how her heart was trying to climb out of her chest and up her throat.

-

They eventually left the shady peace of Central Park and made their way south, past the shiny luxury storefronts of sixth avenue. Eddie felt oddly buoyant as they travelled down the sidewalk – the midday heat didn’t seem so oppressive, just summery and nice, especially when she noticed the way Richie seemed to be enjoying the sun, sticking out her arms and legs and turning her face up, slowly giving her pale skin the barest red-pink hue.

“Did you wear sunscreen?” asked Eddie, because the colouring of Richie’s skin was oddly lovely, but also a major health hazard. Eddie dug through her bag, pulling her off to the side of the walkway. “I don’t understand how you’re so pale if you live in LA,” Eddie said, shaking her head as she uncapped a bottle of sunscreen and poured some into Richie’s already outstretched palm.

Richie shrugged as she obediently rubbed sunscreen over her arms. “Honestly, I’m kind of nocturnal. It’s part of the job.”

Eddie frowned. “Well, maybe you should get a dog or something, to get you out of the house.” She poured some of the greasy sunscreen on her fingers and rubbed it into the bridge of Richie’s nose and her cheeks.

“Okay, mom,” she said, smiling at Eddie’s fussing.

Eddie pursed her lips, annoyed. “You know, vitamin D deficiency is no joke. And neither is skin damage,” she snapped. “Turn around.”

Richie turned around and Eddie stood on her tip toes to rub more sunscreen on the exposed back of her neck. When she turned around, Eddie saw her spot something in the distance, her face lighting up with excitement. Eddie turned around and immediately saw what Richie was looking at.

“We have to get ice cream,” she said, pointing at the pink ice cream truck parked on the side of the street.

Eddie’s face scrunched up in disgust. “Do you have any idea how much bacteria there is in the average soft-serve ice cream machine?” Richie admitted that she didn’t. “A lot. Have you ever heard of a little thing called pink mold?”

“Well, I’m gonna get ice cream,” said Richie, nonplussed. She led them to the truck, hand on Eddie’s shoulder, and ordered a vanilla cone. “Are you sure you don’t want one? Because you’re not getting any of mine,” she warned.

Eddie crossed her arms. “You have to be crazy if you think I’m going to put something in my mouth that is not only riddled with… with fucking _listeria,_ but also with your mouth germs.” She shuddered.

Richie smiled at the vendor. “Just one then, please,” she said cheerily. Instead of heeding Eddie’s warnings, the little smile on her face told Eddie she was enjoying how worked up she was getting her. Eddie huffed as Richie handed the man a five and he handed her back a cone.

“Do you want the first bite?” asked Richie, holding the cone out to her. “No mouth germs, just the listerine or whatever. But one bite won’t kill you.”

“You _just_ said I couldn’t have any,” said Eddie, eyeing the cone suspiciously, but she relented, accepting it and taking a bite before handing it back to Richie. She really, really liked soft serve. Enough to risk her life, apparently.

“And _you_ just said you weren’t going to have any,” said Richie. Eddie had to admit that that was a fair point.

They kept walking down the avenue, past St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and they paused on the opposite sidewalk to admire it. Eddie took the opportunity to reach out, steady Richie’s hand with hers, and take another bite of ice cream. Richie looked at her, eyes wide with surprise, but she had the grace not to point out Eddie’s hypocrisy about mouth germs.

“Can I ask you something?” Eddie said. She realized her hand was still curled around Richie’s and she let it drop.

“Anything,” Richie confirmed without hesitating.

“In your show you talked about your boyfriend. But you don’t really have one, do you?” Richie raised her eyebrows, and Eddie cringed internally. She sounded like a middle school girl talking to her first crush, and she could hear the hopeful, shy lilt to her voice.

Richie laughed awkwardly, and Eddie wished she hadn’t asked, wished she hadn’t made Richie uncomfortable. “Uh, no, I don’t. I don’t really date guys,” she admitted. “I’m a lesbian, actually,” she said. She looked surprised at her own admission, and for a second Eddie thought she was actually going to cover her mouth with her palm. “I mean… uh, I don’t normally tell people that,” she said, looking at the ground, but Eddie could see her cheeks flushing. Eddie was about to say something – reassure her maybe, but Richie barrelled on. “But the lesbian comedian niche is pretty much filled, since Ellen already, you know, exists. She really beat me to the punch on that one.”

Eddie frowned. She could see through Richie’s deflective humour clear as day, could see her brashness for the defense mechanism it was as if she’d known her for her whole life. She had the sudden urge to hug her, to rub out the anxious crease that had taken up residence on her forehead with her thumb. “You’re not really anything like Ellen, though.”

“True,” agreed Richie. “First of all, I’m much, much sexier than Ellen.” Eddie tilted her head in a gesture that said _I’m not so sure about that,_ and Richie gasped with mock offense, lightly shoving Eddie on the arm and making her giggle. “But… even if I did come out, and if, by some miracle, it didn’t completely tank my career, I couldn’t make the kinds of jokes I’m making now.”

“What do you mean?” asked Eddie.

Richie thought for a minute, licking her ice cream. Eddie watched the movement of her tongue. “Well, if I’m joking about my ‘boyfriend’,” she said, putting _boyfriend_ in exaggerated finger quotes, “I can pretty much be as vulgar as I want. But I don’t think the American public is ready to hear me make jokes like that about, like, eating pussy, when they aren’t even ready to legalize same-sex marriage, you know?”

Eddie tried not to let any reaction show on her face. She didn’t want Richie to think she was homophobic or something – she wasn’t – but _eating pussy_ just sounded so… so _crass_ , and that combined with Richie gratuitously licking her ice cream cone was just… no. Eddie pushed the thought from her mind and nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, I see what you mean,” she said. “But that sucks.”

Richie shrugged with a small smile. “It is what it is.”

Eddie turned to her, annoyed. “No, it really fucking sucks, Richie. Like, it’s just… fucking bullshit.” She wanted to stamp her foot, because seeing that little sad, resigned look on Richie’s face really irritated her.

Richie laughed. “You swear a lot when you get mad.”

“Shut up,” said Eddie. Something about Richie making even the simplest observations about her made her feel uncomfortably exposed. “Do you, um, have a girlfriend, then?”

Richie nodded gravely. “Yeah, I actually do. We’ve been together for quite some time – it’s honestly driven by a mutual attraction and appreciation for each other’s bodies more than anything else. You might know her, actually-“

“Is it my mom?” asked Eddie, and Richie looked over at her in shock and dismay, the way a dog looks at you when it realizes you were just pretending to throw the stick. Eddie tsked. “Predictable. I thought you were supposed to be a comedian.”

Richie scoffed. “What?! That joke works every time, I swear!” she said disbelievingly. She shook her head mutely, wind temporarily taken out of her sails. “But, no, I don’t have a girlfriend. Dating isn’t really my thing.” Eddie raised her eyebrows, and Richie backtracked. “I’m not like, a player or anything,” she clarified. “The whole commitment thing just kind of gives me the heebie-jeebies.” Eddie supposed she could understand that, even though she felt the opposite. It was the idea of not being in a relationship that gave her the heebie-jeebies more than anything. “You have a boyfriend though, right?”

Eddie nodded. “Yeah. Mark. He’s a lawyer.”

“Gosh, he sounds great,” said Richie, and Eddie snorted, knocking her shoulder into Richie’s.

“He is great,” she said. “And he doesn’t think I’m too high maintenance, which is more than can be said for most guys. And my mom likes him, which is more than can be said for most people in general.”

Richie made a face that bordered on disgust. “That seems like a low bar,” she said. It was the first time Eddie had heard her sound properly annoyed. “You don’t seem high maintenance to me.”

“Well, you don’t know me that well,” countered Eddie. But as the words left her mouth, she realized they didn’t ring true.


	3. july 2006, part three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao i feel like i go through phases with this fic where i like it then i fucking hate it soooo much and im like why???? why have i created this monster destined only for wretchedness? but anyway thank you for reading (like genuinely i think it's neat and i feel lucky that i get to write something then people read it.... like what if i had been born in like 1400?? id have to write this shit on parchment and then fucking burn it or whatever and it would never see the light of day. sick that that's not the case)
> 
> ok also butch richie inspo - the skin deep on youtube, a vid called "cultural barriers in our same sex relationship - aspasia & tiff" i feel like the girl on the right looks how i picture butch richie looking a little bit (except picture her like 5x goofier bc butch richie is goofy as hell). also just watch the video it's fucking beautiful and makes me cry/sob/weep, etc.

(Richie)

When they passed by the Rockefeller centre, Richie insisted they go see the rink.

“It’s a lot more impressive in the winter,” warned Eddie as Richie excitedly pulled her along.

“Nah, it’s so cool,” said Richie as they approached, leaning over the edge. It really wasn’t that impressive, compared to how Richie imagined it, but she could picture it looking festive and romantic like on TV. “Just like in Home Alone 2: Lost in New York.” Eddie snorted. “If there’s one thing I miss about the east coast, it’s the seasons. Do you ever come skating here?”

Eddie shook her head. “I don’t know how to skate,” she said. “I never learned. My mom was always afraid I’d crack my head open on the ice or something.” She didn’t seem particularly regretful about this, but Richie gasped.

“You never learned how to _skate_?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “Don’t you think that’s kind of an important life skill?”

“In what way? It’s not like swimming, I’m never going to have to skate to save my life.”

“Tell that to Kevin McCallister.”

“Who?”

Richie gave her a significant look. “Of Home Alone 2: Lost in New York?” Eddie rolled her eyes. “But seriously, skating is fun. I could teach you, sometime.”

Eddie paused. “How would that work? With you leaving tomorrow.”

Richie paused too, realizing her mistake. “Um, I don’t know,” she admitted. “Wow,” she said, chuckling, “I’m sorry, that was weird.” She fixed her eyes on the golden statue at the head of the rink, resolutely avoiding Eddie’s gaze. A large pigeon perched on its shoulder, preening its feathers. “It’s just that sometimes when we’re talking, I feel like…” She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck with her palm. She didn’t know how to say what she wanted to say without sounding completely unhinged.

“Like we know each other from somewhere?” suggested Eddie, voice nearly a whisper. Richie finally looked at her and nodded. Eddie pressed her lips together, looking away. She started walking again, picking up her pace, and Richie scrambled to catch back up.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” she asked, voice rising in excitement, heart pounding.

Eddie shook her head minutely. “I don’t know,” she said with an aggravated sigh. “I don’t know what I feel.” When she looked at Richie she had this confused, vulnerable look in her eyes.

“Hey, it’s okay,” said Richie. She hardly recognized her own voice for how soft it sounded. It was fun to annoy Eddie, but it hurt Richie to see her genuinely upset - a physical, pain in your chest hurt that was completely unfamiliar to her. She had the sudden, intense urge to hug her, but she kept her arms firmly as her sides.

“We should do something,” said Eddie after a long, awkward pause in which Richie searched fruitlessly for the right thing to say. She wanted to say more, ask more, push Eddie to talk to her. “Like, a museum or something?” Eddie suggested, voice falsely bright.

“O-okay,” said Richie, stumbling at the sudden change of tone. In it, she heard Eddie’s silent request: _please don’t make me talk about this right now,_ and Richie decided to go along with it, only a little reluctantly. She wanted to get to the bottom of things – how was it possible that they were both so familiar to each other? And it wasn’t – for Richie at least – a case of having met in passing once or twice. She _knew_ Eddie, knew her as well as she knew anyone. Not in the sense that she already knew everything about her – it was something deeper than that. She wondered if Eddie felt the same, and if she’d ever get the chance to ask.

They bickered over which museum to go to, Eddie listing ideas and insisting that Richie pick, and Richie insisting she didn’t care either way.

“Well, MOMA is right over there,” Eddie said, finally relenting. “Do you like modern art?”

Richie shrugged. “Sure,” she said, “yeah.” In truth, she couldn’t imagine anything more boring than an art museum, but it didn’t really matter to her what they did. She thought she could probably have fun doing anything with Eddie.

-

The museum was crowded, but the air conditioning was blasting, and they both sighed with relief. Inside was brightly lit and clean, and as they made their way through the galleries, Richie was surprised by how much she liked a lot of the pieces. The bright bold graphics, the black and white photographs, even the odd installations were fun to look at.

“This is so cool,” said Richie, gesturing to a large painting, broad slashes of red and orange and brown on a white canvas. She squinted at it, getting as close as she could and squinting through her glasses. “What do you think it means?” she asked, looking over at Eddie, and she was startled to find Eddie already looking at her.

Eddie cleared her throat, quickly looking back at the picture. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know that it means anything. A kindergartener could have done it.”

“Are you serious? It’s so… it’s so passionate!”

Eddie shrugged. “I guess I’m not that into abstract art.”

“Okay, wait,” said Richie. She was stuck on this, this need for Eddie to see what she was seeing. To feel what she was feeling. “Close your eyes.”

“What? Why?” Eddie glanced at her, suspicious.

“Just- here.” Richie sidled up behind Eddie and covered her eyes with her palm, other hand resting on Eddie’s warm upper arm. Eddie tensed, but didn’t struggle or push Richie away. She moved them a foot to the left, so that Eddie was standing right in front of the painting, and then removed her hand. “Doesn’t that make you feel something?” Eddie blinked against the sudden light.

Eddie was quiet for a second, and Richie suddenly realized how close they were standing. She could feel Eddie breathing against her, the way her ribcage expanded with her breaths. “Uh, yeah,” Eddie said, “kinda.”

They kept wandering, talking about Eddie’s career ( _the exciting world of insurance adjusting,_ said Eddie, laughing, _I won’t bore you with the details_ ; _please do,_ Richie replied. She wanted her to keep talking, enjoying the expressive cadence of her voice and her foul language when talking about her coworkers.) By the time they ascended to the third floor, it was clear they had both lost interest in the art and were more concerned with joking and pushing each other around, their laughter carrying through the gallery.

“What does this look like to you?”

Eddie examined the painting. “Um, I don’t know. A flower?”

Richie shook her head. “Nope.”

“What? Yes, it’s a flower. It’s a fucking orchid,” said Eddie, reading the little plaque on the wall.

“Mm-mm,” said Richie, shaking her head again. “This… this is a vagina.” Eddie made a noise of protest. “Yup,” continued Richie, “ye olde moose knuckle. The bearded clam, if you will.”

Eddie made a noise of disgust. “I will not, thanks. That’s fucking foul, Richie.”

Richie shrugged. “I’m telling you, this is a cooter. And this,” she said, pointing to the centre of the flower, “this is the-“

Eddie reached up and covered Richie’s mouth with her hand. “Shush,” she said, nodding in the direction of the grey-haired museum attendant in the corner who was eyeing them disapprovingly.

Richie tried to speak, but it was muffled against Eddie’s hand. She stuck out her tongue and Eddie shrieked, pulling her hand away. “Thank you,” she said, clearing her throat importantly. “I was just going to say, this is the stamen of the flower.”

Eddie narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think that’s-“

“But it _sure looks like_ a cl-“

“Enough!” said Eddie, cutting her off. She grabbed Richie around the wrist and started pulling her toward the elevator under the watchful eye of the museum attendant. She pulled Richie into the elevator and hit the button to take them to the main floor. “You’re such a fucking dumbass,” she said, shoulders shaking, and it took Richie a second to realize that she was giggling. She felt something warm and happy bloom in her chest, and she wondered whether it was normal to feel so giddy over being called a dumbass. “You were about to get us kicked out.”

“No,” said Richie, laughing, “she was just interested in my analysis. I think there’s a job offer in my future, in fact. And anyway, I don’t see why you’re so concerned with us getting kicked out when you’ve clearly decided we’re leaving anyway.” It wasn’t that Richie wanted to stay at the museum, exactly, but the thought that they were going to exit onto the sidewalk and part ways was making her chest clench with anxiety.

Eddie looked at her, abruptly serious. “Well, it’s just- we haven’t eaten all day,” she said. “So I thought-“

“Food!” exclaimed Richie, relieved. “We should do that. If that’s- I mean, do you want to get food with me?”

Eddie gave her a Look. “Um, yes?” she said, like it was obvious, and Richie smiled so hard it hurt her cheeks.

When they stepped out onto the sidewalk, the sunlight was already fading to a golden glow, and Richie was surprised to see it was nearly six o’clock.

-

By the time they ate their dinner (burgers at a little place near the museum that they carried out and ate on a bench, watching the people streaming past with dogs and shopping bags and bikes) and made their way back to Richie’s hotel, it was dusk, and the sky was fading into an inky blue, and the streetlight cast long shadows on the pavement as they made their way down the street in the cooling night air.

When they got to the hotel, Richie hesitated. “Okay.” Eddie was facing her but standing too far away for her to touch, which Richie lamented and was grateful for in equal measure. She didn’t want to do anything stupid (but she did, she _did_ , because the last golden light of the day was filtering through Eddie’s hair and playing on her freckled, tan shoulders, and glinting off the little gold necklace she was wearing, which Richie couldn’t deny she was finding the sight of it resting on her chest entrancing). “Thank you for showing me around,” she said, which was the weakest, most diluted version of what she wanted to say.

Eddie nodded. “You’re welcome,” she said, her tone giving nothing away, and Richie felt like she was adrift in a dark sea, and Eddie was standing there, all golden and bright, and she couldn’t leave, but Richie didn’t know how to get her to stay.

“All right. Um, see you later, then? I mean, you have my number, so if you’re ever in LA you should let me know. I’m just a text away.” She did a little texting gesture, wiggling her thumbs in the air, and immediately recognized how awkward it was. She couldn’t wait to look back on that moment for the rest of her life and cringe.

Eddie stood stock still, and Richie saw her swallow, the small movement of her throat.

“You aren’t going to invite me up?” asked Eddie. She said it confidently, but there was a tremor to her voice characterized by something closer to fear than anxiety, and Richie realized the amount of courage it must have taken for her to say that.

Richie opened and closed her mouth, shocked as a fish pulled out of water. “Oh,” she said. “Do you want to come up? For coffee? Or, um…”

“Okay.” Eddie nodded.

They took the elevator up to Richie’s floor in silence. Every few seconds, Richie glanced furtively at Eddie, but Eddie kept her eyes forward on the brushed steel of the elevator doors, standing impassively, reflecting them in blurry shape and colour. Richie wasn’t generally an anxious person, but her hands were shaking so much that she had to shove them into her pockets. Eddie, on the other hand, showed no outward signs of anxiety, and Richie tried and failed to guess at what she was thinking, her face in profile giving nothing away, her breathing even in a way Richie suspected was practiced.

When they got to the fifth floor, Richie realized that she didn’t remember which room was hers. She took out her key card and stared at it, turning it over in her hands. Shouldn’t it be written on there somewhere? She felt like she had just sat down for an exam and realized she hadn’t studied. Eddie sighed and took the card gently from her hands, looked at it for a second, and slipped it into the key slot of 509.

The room was dim, the very last of the evening light streaming through the gauzy curtains doing little to illuminate anything, but neither of them reached to turn on the light. Eddie turned toward her, effectively trapping her against the door, and Richie was frozen in place as Eddie reached up and rested her hand on Richie’s jaw. The touch was simple but felt as charged as if Richie had stuck a fork in an electrical outlet, and Richie’s breath caught. She leaned into Eddie’s hand without realizing what she was doing, nuzzling it like a dog.

“Is this okay?” asked Eddie, and Richie nodded. _Okay_ was an understatement. There had been a voice in the back of Richie’s head all the way up to the room that told her that Eddie had a boyfriend, that this was monumentally fucking stupid and wrong, but as soon as Eddie touched her, those thoughts turned off like the flick of a switch, fading into white noise. Eddie touching her, it was this intoxicating mixture of the familiar and the foreign, like she’d somehow had Eddie’s hands on her a hundred thousand times-

_Eddie riding along on the handlebars of her bike, leaning back against her chest._

_Eddie laughing as they climb each other, trying to dunk each other’s heads under the freezing water of the lake._

_Sharing a hammock, legs tangled together as they read comic books, Eddie nudging her in the ribs with her toes when she gets to an exciting part._

But that was impossible, wasn’t it? Before Richie could start to parse where these memories were coming from, they were gone from her brain like water through a sieve.

Eddie leaned up on her toes and Richie held her breath, sure she was about to kiss her. Instead, she ran her nose up the column of Richie’s neck. When she felt the warmth of Eddie’s lips brush the hollow of her throat, Richie heard a whimper and was astonished to realize it fell from her own mouth. Her hand went to the curve of Eddie’s hip, feeling her soft, warm skin under the thin fabric of her sundress, and this alone was almost too much, to have Eddie so close, the smell of sunscreen and coconut shampoo.

Eddie pressed her lips to the soft, sensitive spot just below Richie’s ear, and with that she pulled away, tilting her face up to look at Richie, cheeks flushed pink and brown eyes dark and drowsy. Richie leaned down to kiss her (finally, finally, finally), but Eddie pulled out of her reach, setting a silent boundary. They could touch, but they couldn’t kiss on the lips. Richie could live with that, even if it made her feel like her heart was being run over by a steamroller.

This time, when Eddie tilted her head up, Richie didn’t try to kiss her, and Eddie rewarded her by softly brushing their noses together, which was almost more intimate than kissing, the way Eddie’s eyelashes briefly brushed against Richie’s cheeks, and the way she could feel the heat of her against her front, the deep breathing movement of her chest against Richie’s. Richie, for her part, was panting like she’d just run up three flights of stairs, especially when Eddie slipped her fingers into Richie’s hair, tugging softly at the roots. She let her head fall forward, resting her forehead against Eddie’s. “God, I want to touch you,” she said. She stroked her hands down Eddie’s sides, from her ribs to her hips to her thighs, roughly enough that it shifted the fabric of her sundress out of place. Richie hitched Eddie’s dress up over her hip and palmed at Eddie’s warm, bare skin, fingers brushing the fabric of her underwear, and Eddie shivered against her.

“Fuck, Rich, please,” said Eddie, in this breathless, prayerful voice that emptied Richie’s brain of anything except the impulse for more, more, more. She ducked her head and got her mouth on Eddie’s throat. She tasted like salt and sunshine where Richie kissed her. Eddie sidled up closer to her so that one of Richie’s thighs was between hers, and the bare display of desire set Richie on fire. She started sucking a hickey onto the side of Eddie’s throat, right above her collar bone, and it didn’t occur to her that it was a bad idea until-

“Stop, stop.” Richie pulled away immediately, letting Eddie’s dress fall back over her legs. They were both panting, a hectic blush staining Eddie’s cheeks. Eddie’s fingers skated over the darkening mark above her collar bone, surveying the damage, maybe.

“Sorry,” said Richie. “I- I wasn’t thinking.”

“Fuck,” Eddie cursed quietly, more to herself than to Richie. “We shouldn’t be doing this. We can’t do this.”

Richie nodded. She was right, of course she was. Richie was ashamed to realize that she hadn’t been thinking that at all. In fact, stopping had been the furthest thing from her mind, and she would have been happy to let Eddie push her up against the hotel room door for hours, necking like horny tweens. Eddie made no move to put any distance between them, so Richie pushed her away gently by the shoulders. Maybe the extra foot between them would let her think clearly.

“I’m sorry,” Richie said again, and Eddie shook her head.

“That’s not- no,” said Eddie. “Please don’t be.”

“Okay. Do you… do you want to leave?” Richie stepped away from the door, clearing the way for her, but Eddie didn’t move.

“Do you want me to leave?” asked Eddie, her voice small and vulnerable.

“No. Never,” said Richie. Eddie bit her lip, and a long silence stretched between them. The AC by the window kicked in, roaring to life in the quiet of the room. “Do you want to just,” Richie hesitated, “um, sleep? I think the couch pulls out, so I can set up there.”

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch.”

“No, it’s okay,” said Richie. “I was actually checking it out earlier, and it seems like a really nice mattress. Like, some Tempurpedic Swedish Sleep System shit. Or, you know those commercials where they, uh, drop the bowling balls? I think it’s one of those. Really, I’m being selfish-“

“Richie,” interrupted Eddie, and Richie could see she was holding back laughter, “I don’t want you to sleep on the couch.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Can I use your shower?” asked Eddie. She was already reaching back and unzipping her dress.

“Of course. There’s towels in the… well, you know how hotels work.”

Richie sat on the edge of the bed as Eddie showered, listening to the familiar sound of water hitting the side of the shower and her feet squeaking against the shower floor. When she stepped out of the bathroom, she was wearing a clean shirt and a pair of boxer briefs Richie lent her, both of which were comfortably oversized on Richie but were tight on Eddie, clinging to her waist and hips. The sight of Eddie in her clothes was enough to make Richie consider hopping in the shower too, turning the water freezing cold.

“Hi,” said Eddie. She immediately crossed the room, pulled back the covers, and climbed into Richie’s bed. Richie stood, looking at her hesitantly. She had attempted to dry her hair with a towel, but it was still wet, leaving dark marks on the shoulders of Richie’s t-shirt. She looked young, with her makeup washed away and her knees pulled into her chest. She patted the other side of the bed, just once, beckoning Richie with her eyes, brown and luminous even in the dark of the room, fringed by her dark, wet lashes.

“I should, uh, brush my teeth,” said Richie, and she didn’t wait for Eddie to say anything before escaping to the bathroom. It was still humid from Eddie’s shower, mirrors all condensed and foggy, which was inconvenient, because it would have been the perfect time for Richie to look herself in the face and wonder what the fuck she was doing. She took her time brushing her teeth, washing her face, pulling off her shorts, quietly panicking. Did she miss the after-school special where shit like this happened? Where you met someone you clearly fucking knew in a past life or whatever, then you feel each other up even though she’s in a relationship with someone else? And did this after-school special explain how to sleep beside her like that was enough, and what to do when you woke up in the morning? How to live the rest of your life like it mattered as much as this?

The fog started to clear from the mirror and Richie could see- okay, she could see that stupid zit on her chin, looking redder and more inflamed than it had the night before. She sighed and took a deep breath with her hand on the doorknob and left the bathroom. Eddie looked up from where she was resting her head on her knees, looking hopeful in a way that made Richie’s heart thump in her chest.

When Richie crossed the room to the bed and lay down, Eddie immediately curled up against her, so she was practically lying on top of her, her head resting against Richie’s chest and her arm around Richie’s stomach. Richie tried to control her breathing, deep, slow intakes of air, but she knew her heart was beating fast and that Eddie could probably hear it.

“Maybe we knew each other in a past life,” said Richie, breaking the silence.

Eddie didn’t respond for a long moment. “Maybe,” she finally said, but in a tone that told Richie she wasn’t convinced. “Do you believe in that kind of stuff?”

Richie shrugged. She wasn’t sure what she believed, and since meeting Eddie she was less sure than ever. “I dunno.” Richie ran her fingers through Eddie’s hair, tentative, and when Eddie sighed happily, Richie did it again and again, playing with the still-damp strands of her hair. “Maybe we’re soulmates,” said Richie, laughing like she was joking. Eddie didn’t respond, and it took a minute for Richie to realize she had probably fallen asleep.

That night, Richie dreamt about a sewer. An old, ramshackle house, surrounded by deserted lots. The Derry arcade where she had spent the long summers of her youth. And a hammock, swinging in a dusty shaft of light. But when she awoke with a jolt, the dream faded from her mind as fast as a wet footprint on hot pavement.

-

When Richie woke up, she knew she was alone before she even cracked her eyes open. She reached over and palmed over the bedside table blindly, feeling for her watch. Ten – barely enough time to shower before she had to leave for her flight. She sat up and put her glasses on, looking around the room. There was no evidence that Eddie had been there at all, and it occurred to her for one sleepy and delirious second that maybe she’d dreamt the whole thing – an oddly vivid fiction of her lonely brain.

It wasn’t until she had finished getting ready and doing a final sweep of the room – sunglasses, keys, phone charger – that she saw the note, written on the hotel-issue notepad in ballpoint pen.

_I’m sorry,_ it read. There had obviously been something written on the next two lines, but it had been scribbled out, the pen leaving grooves in the paper. Then, _Good luck with your tour._ The handwriting was neat and narrow, mature in a way that Richie associated with someone older than her – she had always thought her own handwriting would improve with age, but maybe in her third decade she should consider it a lost cause. Richie carefully ripped the note off the pad and folded it, slipping it into her wallet.


End file.
